“I should think you would beg my pardon, Mr. Mangold,” Clarissa said fearlessly; no mean feat, because if anyone else had referred to him as “Mr. Mangold,” they would likely have gotten Frank’s hard fist to their face. “And what’s that?” She looked behind him, seeing Shea’s exploded head. “Good Lord!” Clarissa immediately retreated from the sight, but lost none of her bearing. “What do you mean, leaving a body in that condition in open view, mister? We have a child on this farm, I’ll have you know—would you like him to stumble on that?”
“Uh,” Mangold noised. “No, ma’am.”
“ ‘No, ma’am’ is right. Trajan, get a tarp from the barn and cover that thing up. As for you, Mr. Mangold, I’m tempted to report this business to your superiors. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“No, ma’am,” Frank answered, fairly humbled; then he found himself a bit and added, “But I don’t think you would, either, Ms. Jones.”
Clarissa, much to my surprise, simply nodded appreciatively at the truth of the statement. “All right, then.” She indicated his hand, which was still holding the pen out, if far less aggressively. “Suppose you show me just what it is you intend to do…”
Mangold waited the thirty seconds or so that it took me to cover Dennis Shea’s body, then proceeded, in a steadily stronger tone, to outline how he thought we ought to nail the case down before anyone could interfere from a very high level. The plan, adjusted by both Mike and me, was certainly bold, though it was not reckless; and whatever Frank’s stated feelings about profiling, it would all come down, in the end, to my correct reading of Cathy Donovan’s psyche, and how it would react to certain stressors.
We phoned the ADA’s office and were told, unsurprisingly, that she would be happy to receive us, even on that unusual day and at that unusual hour. This initial stressor was augmented by a call to Mitch McCarron: after I’d changed my clothes, and Mike and I had gotten into the Crown Vic and under way to Fraser, I pulled up Mitch’s private number. With the phone on speaker, my partner and I discovered that Mitch had worked his magic on the highways heading north of Surrender by calling ahead to his fellow senior officers, who held him in as high regard as I did. Mitch having relayed his information, I hung up, then turned to find Mike glancing at me quickly, shaking his head, and letting out a groaning sigh.
“Whoa, boy,” he said at length. “I know where your mind’s headed, L.T.; but don’t you ever wonder about it, yourself?”
“Hmm?” was all I could say in reply, as I stared out the passenger window.
“I’m talking about your notorious—detachment. Don’t you feel anything at all, even now?”
I nodded. “Far too much,” I said, in a flat tone that apparently didn’t meet with Mike’s approval: he picked up a nearby CD case and whacked me over the head with it.
“Damn it, L.T.!” he said. “That’s just what I’m talking about—it isn’t right! Every time the shit gets worse, the more you sound like you’re dead inside.”
“What do you want me to do, Mike?” I turned to him, my voice still calm. “Go into Donovan’s office in a state of emotional crisis? This isn’t over, yet; and she has to think we can’t touch her.”
He shook his head with a sour look. “Convenient excuse—except that I’ve seen you like this before, you know. Shutting down. And it just isn’t right.”
“No,” I answered, looking back out the window again. “It isn’t…”
Not wanting to go on in this vein—for it was, as Mike had indicated, a conversation that we’d had many times—I looked back out at my wing mirror, periodically checking to make sure that Frank Mangold’s cruiser was behind us. And, all the way to Fraser, it was: following just as the men on the Thruway (confederates and subordinates of Dennis Shea’s, Mangold had speculated) had done: at a distance but steadily, never letting anything get in the way of his ability to shadow our movements. The thought did occur to me, since I’d experienced so heavy a dose of betrayal, by then, that he might be setting us up to take the blame for all the blunders that had occurred. But this was a passing concern: Frank needed us as much as we needed him, just then. Not for his own selfish reasons, and certainly not for ours, but to reach the goal that had been his life’s too-often brutal work: getting at the truth and closing the case.
By the time we reached the Fraser courthouse, where the office of the assistant district attorney was located on the second floor of the western wing (as far, I noted for the first time, from the sheriff’s office as was possible), the sun had begun to set; but there was still a great deal of activity going on around the building. I was glad to see Steve Spinetti and Pete Steinbrecher outside, giving orders to a group of their own people, as well as to some Fraser cops: whatever they were doing, it clearly had nothing to do with our case, but their mere presence put both Mike and me much more at ease. We parked and got out quickly, catching both men before they had a chance to enter their own cruisers. Their faces brightened upon seeing us, a glad expression that was quickly tempered by mystification when they saw Frank Mangold park his car, not in the building’s lot, but across the street, after which he emerged to put on his sunglasses and cross over toward where we were standing.
“Boys,” Steve said, as we exchanged handshakes all around. “Pardon my asking, but—what the hell are you doing here with Mangold?”
“Don’t tell me he finally arrested you?” Pete said, echoing Steve’s astonished tone.
“No, no,” I answered. “We’re—actually working with Frank, at this stage, Pete.”
“As fucking unbelievable as that sounds,” Mike tossed in dubiously.
“What?” Steve asked, ever more amazed. “On what? And what the hell are you all doing here?”
By now, Frank had gotten close enough to hear the conversation. “Above your pay grade, I’m afraid, Sheriff,” he said, with his usual delicacy. Then he looked from Mike to me. “Well? Time to play charades, fellas.”
“Charades?” Pete said; but almost as soon as he had, he held up his hands. “I know, I know, above my pay grade. Well, just as well—we’ve got to get uptown. North Fraser’s busted loose again. Ever since your boy shot that kid, Inspector, we’ve had some kind of rioting just about every other day.”
I was as perversely glad to hear this as I had been the first time I’d been informed of unrest following Latrell’s death: someone needed to remember him, and if this was how they were going to do it, fine. There was only one flaw, as I told Pete: “Why don’t they come downtown and tear things up? That might actually do some good.”
“It might, at that,” Steve said with a small grin. “But I don’t think any of them wants to risk a bullet to the head like Sergeant Shea dealt out that night.”
“Yeah, well,” Mangold said. “You don’t have to worry about Sergeant Shea, anymore, Sheriff. Okay, let’s go, Doctors…”
Signaling reluctant goodbyes to the still-confused Steve and Pete, Mangold, Mike, and I, the oddest law enforcement trio imaginable just then, entered the beautiful if decaying courthouse, and made our way up the marble stairway, myself hanging onto the wrought iron and brass banister. The second-story hallway was deserted, save for two men posted outside the door to Cathy Donovan’s office: men who, I was sure, had been among those who’d tried to block our return to Surrender via the New Baltimore Travel Center. The sight of them dislodged much of my trepidation, replacing it with anger; and as we approached, the pair of thick-necked goons glowered at Mike and me.
“We do have an appointment,” Mike said, with a laudable absence of fear, himself. Yet the men made no move to admit us, prompting me to ask:
“Or perhaps you’d prefer that we shoot it out in yet another parking lot?” Both of their broad faces grew sour, which was only a red cape for my increasingly bullish feelings. “Whatsamatter, fellas? Cathy won’t pay to get your van fixed?”
“Okay, okay, enough flirting,” Mangold said. “They do have an appointment, boys, and you don’t want to keep your boss waiti
ng.”
“Need to pat ’em down, first, sir,” one of the sentries said, showing Frank proper deference.
Mangold shrugged. “Better you than me,” he said, indicating that they should go ahead, which they did. Mike and I had, of course, been sure to leave our guns at home; and when the goon doing the patting reached my prosthesis, he stood up, smiling in a sickeningly smug manner.
“Gimp,” he said. “Without that Colt, you’re just another geek pussy, aren’t you, Jones?”
“Hey, that’s Doctor Pussy to you, asshole,” Mike answered. “And—”
But I held a hand up to my partner. “And before this is over, you may wish that it was me who had his gun tonight, after all.” The exchange thus ended, one guy laid hold of the doorknob to Donovan’s outer office and pushed the mahogany portal open for Mike and me, while Mangold stayed behind, for the time being, in the hallway. A hydraulic closer dating back decades closed the thing behind us with a hiss, giving the man I’d insulted just enough time to say:
“Enjoy yourselves, ladies…”
There wasn’t anyone in Donovan’s outer office, which was an ominous sign: it meant that Cathy hadn’t called in any of even her closest flunkies to witness the meeting, didn’t want anyone overhearing us, even by chance. Walking past a tidy assistant’s desk that’d been straightened up for the following day, we knocked on another mahogany door that was even thicker than the one we’d just passed through; yet Donovan’s voice was clear enough to penetrate it: “Come in, Doctors…”
Inside, we found the ADA standing before one of the office’s tall nineteenth-century windows, looking down at the parking lot. A lone banker’s desk lamp, its green glow only slightly reinforced by some recently installed recessed lights in the ceiling—faded back, now, to a dim but perceptible level—gave the dark paneling and white paint of the room a very eerie effect, one that I was sure Donovan had spent some time creating. As for the woman herself, she was dressed, as always, in a very smart business suit, although when she turned with a smile to indicate that we should sit in the wooden chairs in front of the desk, I noted that, for the first time since I had known her, the suit’s jacket was unbuttoned, revealing an extremely sexy, tight-fitting shirt that allowed us to see more of her ample cleavage than was usual. She sat when we did, leaning toward us in a way that made her attributes even more visible: an effect that I was certain was meant to throw us further off our guard. But I was beyond such displays, at that point; and even the sybaritic Mike sat stony-faced.
“Well, gentlemen,” Donovan began, as cagily as ever. “We have a situation to resolve.”
Going into my jacket pocket, I withdrew my usual small pad of paper, and then the pen that Mangold had given me. Clicking it once, I asked, “Cathy, do you mind if I take notes, by any chance?”
Her smile only got wider, revealing very white teeth that glowed green, given the downturned shade of the banker’s lamp. “Let’s not fool around, Dr. Jones. No banter, none of your usual repartee. Just put the pad and pen away, thank you.”
I did as told, sliding the pad back into my jacket pocket, then clipping the pen to the same opening so that the top of it was clear of any fabric. After that, I let my jacket hang as loosely as I could.
“Now,” she began, “I’m sure you can guess that the State Police have already picked up the Kurtz girl and Kevin Meisner on their way north. Apparently on a tip from you, Dr. Jones.”
I stared deep into those inscrutable eyes of hers. “Apparently.”
She smiled again, very seductively: a smile very similar to Ambyr’s, who, I was now convinced, she had coached in such matters. “Love doesn’t triumph over all, then?” she asked.
“It does not,” I said, past all these sorts of provocation.
“No. But justice does. If it’s justice.” Donovan finally sat back. “I understand you like to quote Francis Bacon, Doctor.” When I nodded, she said, “What about this one: ‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice; and the more man turns to it, the more the law ought to weed it out.’ ”
Nodding again, I said, “You’ve mangled it pretty badly, however. Not the kind of thing I’d expect from—” Looking to her wall, I picked out one of many framed diplomas. “A Northwestern Law graduate? Impressive.” It was my turn to lean forward. “So what happened to you, Cathy?”
She laughed lightly, engagingly—again, just as Ambyr would have done—and took the moment to stand and remove her jacket, revealing the rest of her shirt, if it could be called that, which clung tightly to her very toned body, just two thin straps of cotton reaching over her shoulders.
I hoped Mike could keep holding it together; for the image was alluring, indeed. But he simply smiled, eyes widening a bit, and said, “Jesus. Somebody’s been hitting the gym pretty hard. What do you favor, Ms. Donovan? Weights? Yoga? Or maybe the StairMaster?”
She gave him the same smile. “Good eye, Dr. Li. Yes, the StairMaster.”
“Perfect,” I grunted. “Once an instrument of labor punishment in prisons. They called it ‘the treadwheel.’ But look what it’s done for you, Cathy.”
By now she was getting a little weary of my using her first name, although she tried not to voice it: “Gentlemen—Doctors—we have the guilty parties in this case in custody, now. It doesn’t seem to disturb you much, Dr. Jones, which I’m happy to see. I’ve asked you here to say that I’m ready to call all things even, from now on. The accused will make some wild accusations, against me, against others, maybe even against you two, who knows? But if you’re prepared to—how should I say this…?”
“To cut cards with the devil?” I asked.
She glanced at me with what seemed genuine appreciation. “Well put, Doctor. And if you’ll agree to it, I can tell you that the state is ready to quash anything these two may have to say about you.” Pausing to stretch her arms in satisfaction above her stylishly cut hair, she then ran her fingers through it. “Well, what do you say? It’s a good deal; and I warn you, I’m by far the least powerful person you’ll have to worry about, if you decide to say no.”
Mike piped up bravely, still somehow keeping himself immune to Donovan’s physical charms—perhaps a testament to the newfound depth of his feeling for Gracie Chang: “We know that. And we’ve known it for quite a while.”
“Yes,” Donovan replied. “Your presence in Hoosick Falls, and the pieces put together by your friend Bill Johnson. You don’t want to put his job in jeopardy either, I’m assuming.”
She really was pulling out all the stops; so it was time to counter. “Okay, Cathy—”
But then she snapped at me, “Doctor. I’ve shown you the courtesy of using your title. Do you think that maybe you could do me the small favor of using mine?”
I nodded again, smiling in what I feared was too sarcastic a fashion. “Of course, Assistant District Attorney. So, let’s say we agree. You’re not really leaving us much choice, are you?”
Then, with a suddenness that was once again reminiscent of Ambyr’s style, her voice turned lethal, her face darkened, and she said, “Understand this: I will make it my life’s fucking work to destroy you and everyone around you, if you don’t agree. That means your great-aunt, whose farm subsidies might come up for review when it’s discovered that a second business—yours—is being conducted on the grounds of Shiloh; it means taking Bill Johnson’s license away, for sharing information with unauthorized investigators; it means—and I’m dead serious, here—revoking your permit to own an exotic animal, and ensuring that that creature, who took the life of a BCI officer today, is put down. And all of that’s just for starters. Exposure of your conduct to the SUNY-Albany chancellors will certainly mean the end of your teaching careers. Anything I’ve left out?”
I was too angry and astounded to form words quickly; but Mike stepped in. “The dog,” he said.
“What?” Donovan replied, glancing at him in annoyance.
“Miss Clarissa’s little dog,” Mike said. “You forgot to say that you’ll come over and
shoot it.”
Her face now reddening, Donovan’s voice became ever more menacing: “I assure you both—I am not fucking around, here. I have the authorization of people you’ve only imagined backing me up. Don’t try my patience.”
Certain that the ever-unpredictable Mike was about to test Donovan even further, I stepped in: “Don’t worry, Ms. ADA; we’re not prepared to see any of the things you just outlined happen.”
Turning to me and altering her mood on a dime, Donovan let her face relax, and very quickly became the soul of comeliness again. “Well. All right, then. I’m happy to hear that, Dr. Jones.”
“But, since we’re alone here,” I continued, “and unlikely to be overheard, there are just one or two things I’d like to ask, in return for our cooperation.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, just for an instant. “I can’t tell you anything about who might be authorizing this offer, or may have authorized this operation.”
“Of course not. But more personally…” I leaned forward. “What happened, Cathy?”
Looking bewildered for the first time, she said, “What happened where?”
“To you, Ms. ADA,” I said. “How did your life end up here? You had a bright enough start—” I again indicated the diplomas and pictures around me, which told the tale of a beautiful young scholar and athlete from, apparently, the same South Briarwood Combined School that Donnie Butler had attended, who had gone on to SUNY-Albany and then to Northwestern Law, probably on a partial or full scholarship. “How does someone with so much promise end up back here, doing this kind of grunt work for local and state officials?”
Her full smile returned. “You just don’t get it, do you?” she said, echoing other sentiments I’d heard of late; but this time, I did get it, all right, though I wanted to hear it, too. “Sure, I had offers to go into corporate law when I got out of Northwestern, but that didn’t interest me. I’d focused on criminal prosecution, which is the fastest way into politics, and I know this state: I know how far someone who’s prepared to work within the machine can go, and how many corners can be cut just how fast. Sometimes, like with our present governor, it’s a family name that lets you do it. Sometimes, as in the case of certain other people who shall remain nameless, it’s religion, or race; and sometimes, I knew, there are situations that not only don’t exclude women, but require them.” She began to walk behind her desk, running a finger along its surface and then picking up one of the framed pictures. “Yeah, I was quite something in high school; and I learned a lot, there. Academically, sure, but also which male teachers would succumb to what behaviors. Same thing in college: let me tell you, there are a couple of my old pre-law professors at SUNY who would be very nervous, if they heard I’d been taken into custody on any kind of conspiracy charge. But that’s not going to happen, is it?”